


Down the Burning Ropes

by murgamurg



Category: One Piece
Genre: Baratie, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Inherited Will Theory, M/M, Papa Zeff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:51:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murgamurg/pseuds/murgamurg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zeff's old bones creak as he gets out of bed. Another day at the restaurant, another day hard at work.</p><p>Another day he wishes to see his eggplant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_And the seed needs the water_

_Before it grows out of the ground_

_But it just keeps on getting hotter_

_And the hunger more profound_

Make it Rain, Ed Sheeran

 

* * *

 

_Heat._

_It was something every cook was familiar with since their first lesson in the kitchen. From the first time the stove came alive, that open flame burning and twisting beneath the onerous metal grates, tempting any fool to come and feel and touch with it's haughty nature. Every cook learns to respect it, to take it and tame its wild, passionate beauty. To forge it into something else; something ever greater-- happiness, and full bellies._

_But the heat he was feeling now was nothing like the joyous flush of a pilot light on his cheeks. No, the heat now was imposing, overbearing, insufferable. It is that mistake that every cook makes at least once. That one moment where the danger of an open flame is forgotten and respect for the kitchen goes the way of the onion husks; that one moment where a hand falls upon the heated surface and gets seared like it deserves for its ignorance, its arrogance. He could feel the heat of the sun worming its way under his skin like daggers, biting and cutting his ragged skin, laughing at his dessicated flesh. The wasted rock he sat on radiated with it; absorbing the vile sunlight until it was hot as a charcoal in an open faced grille._

_He leaned over as a chuffing breath pattered on his roped and strung bicep. A mop of soft blonde hair was snug in the hollow of his elbow; frail arms wrapped around a torso much too small for its age. His shadow covered the boy now, in a vague attempt to protect him from the cruelty of the oven surrounding them, regardless of the burn that was already glowing scarlet across his milky pale skin. Large fingers reached out to brush the sweat-drenched bangs from the boy's eyes, and he felt his dry, cracked lips curl into a wry smile as his eyes studied the young face._

_Zeff had never wanted children. Like most men in his line of work, he felt that children were some kind of disease, a punishment on men who were too loose with their beds and too stupid to leave the island in a timely manner. The mere thought of a woman who could tolerate him long enough as any kind of father figure to her children would have him laughing for days on end. But this boy. This young boy was different._

_He was alone. A rotten brat, a leech on those around him, a pain in the ass. A cook, who could be taught to love and respect the kitchen. Most of all, he was a dreamer; he'd spoken of All Blue with a wistful eye, and the biggest dumb grin he'd ever seen on a boy his age. He'd taken Zeff's own dream and twisted it -- bent it for himself, his own iron will as he faced a pirate captain more than five times his size. He reminded Zeff so much of his younger self._

_And he was all Zeff had left. He cradled the boy in his arms, and prayed for rain._

Zeff 's eyes cracked open.

The early morning sunlight peppering his retinas, gently nudging his aging brain awake. The seabirds that plagued his restaurant called in the distance, the wind from his open window twanging salty on the back of his tongue and cooling his wet cheeks. Maybe he'd been crying, or maybe he was just sweaty.

He'd dreamed again of the rock, and the boy who changed his life. He no longer shook upon waking, he no longer felt the need to curl up and scream, and thank god he didn't feel the telltale heaving of bile in his throat from the taste of cooked flesh. Now, the nightmares were something he just dealt with, truthfully nothing more than just dreams. The last one even, had been borderline pleasant, if not for the heat. Even thinking about it momentarily made him throw the sheets away from himself, desperate for that cool ocean breeze.

His joints and the mattress beneath him protested loudly as he shifted himself upright with slow deliberation. Old and weathered hands braced themselves firmly on the side of the bed, bedclothes falling unevenly across his knees. A long, tired sigh escaped his mouth, tickling the loose hairs in his braided mustache, his eyes peering contemptuously at the vacant air beneath his left thigh. Every morning, he expected it to feel normal, seeing the breeze blow through the space where his leg should be. But no. It was still bizarre, a completely alien sensation. He could still feel the foot lying there, lax against the cool wooden floorboards, the pads of his feet feeling out the grains. Sometimes he would try to wiggle the toes, or flex the calf. Sometimes he felt them moving back.

His single able knee creaked as he pushed himself upright, balancing tentatively with one calloused hand still clutching the bed for support lest he topple (which, proudly, he hadn't done in years). Thick, scarred fingers snatched up the wooden prosthesis propped next to his bed; he roughly fastened it to the stunted end of his left leg.

A grimace crossed pursed, cracked lips as he hobbled to the bathroom. The _clunk-clunking_ rhythm of his uneven gait never failed to give him a feeling just short of indigestion.  He turned on the faucet and cupped his hands underneath, scrubbing his face with the collected water more as a stimulant than any sort of cleaning ritual. The cool droplets ran down and through deep folds in his skin as he gazed in the mirror.

Another day.

He brushed his teeth, and eyed the calendar on the wall marked with heavy black ink. After that, he took his morning shit and changed into his chef's whites, plodding out of his room and heading towards the barracks. It would do to get the Baratie's famous fighting chefs up early. They had a lot of preparing to do. A damp washcloth was all he needed to wipe down the sills, making his way down the hallway and subsequently the stairs to the Baratie's grand ballroom.

It was times like these in the early hours of the morning where all was still quiet and calm, where he would wonder absently about his little eggplant, nightmarish dreams aside. What he was up to, and whether he was as satisfied with the path he'd chosen as the old man was. He felt the fondness deep in his chest, and absently wished that he could see the boy again. He wanted to ask him if he'd found All Blue, or if he'd found clues, or if he'd like to tell tales of the Straw Hat's adventures.

 _"Don't you read the papers, shitty old man?"_ He could hear the eggplant say.

He had read the papers. In the latest edition dropped a week prior, it told the whitewashed tale of the Straw Hat Pirates reaching Raftel, and the ruckus they created while facing off with the final Yaunko. His eyes wrinkled in a wry smile as he thought of the Fleet Admiral Sakazuki's displeased face, printed next to his scathing interview.

The wood planks creaked beneath his feet as he crossed the hallway, passing the galley door in favor of the one that led to the lower part of the ship and the barracks. They had a long day ahead of them indeed, and he needed to rouse the lazy sonsabitches that were the Baratie's famous fighting chefs so they could get to work. His hand on the door’s handle, he paused to double back and grab a pot so he could make a proper ruckus, but then stopped.

A low murmur broke the calm clapping of the waves against the hull, the cool whisper of the breeze and the catching calls of gulls circling for breakfast. It was lilting and broken, not unlike the pattern of unintelligible speech.

There was someone talking in the main dining hall.

He paused. There was a long stretch of silence as the old man listened, and waited. Another came, lower pitched this time. A sharp response came from the first, restraining itself to an elevated whisper of... indignance? Regardless, there were two voices.

Two voices he did not recognize, here before the sun had fully risen.

The old man turned instead towards the dining hall, hand forsaking the handle to the barracks. He plodded silently as he could through the doorless portal, hoping to diffuse any pirate aggression before it destroyed the place, hoping to preserve the smiles from the taste of the food, and the large check they would garner before the night's end. The dream that he had invested so much in.

Both figures were facing away from him and stood quietly in the main doorway; bright sunlight rendering them as silhouettes from Zeff's perspective. The one on the left had three thin lines protruding from his hip; something the old man could only reason as swords. He was leaning lazily against the southern door frame, while the other was standing in the center of the doorway, leaning on the rail and talking quietly. Smoke trailed from the central shadow, trailing up to the sky through the morning haze.

Zeff blinked a few times, letting his good leg carry him forward through the dining hall. He glanced briefly at the wanted poster on the wall to his left as he hobbled towards the pair.

It was framed in gold, adorned with letters and well wishes from his greatest fans; mostly the fighting cooks who knew him well. One of the greatest chefs to ever live, and his own protege.

 _Black Leg Sanji._ But this shadow looked nothing like that poster.

"... Is that you, little eggplant?" His voice was husky and unsure, now that he was upon the two.  

The one who was smoking turned around, and Zeff saw him clearly as he joined them in the doorway.

It was indeed, his eggplant.

He was taller but still lanky like the one he knew: still lean, but his shape had filled out. He looked much more a man than the skinny teenager that Zeff remembered. In typical fashion, he wore a fine black suit that fit his longer frame perfectly; a sky blue oxford and a black tie. His hair was long, part of it obscuring his face while the rest was pulled back into a bun, shining golden in the early morning sunlight. A slate blue eye fixed itself upon the old man’s face, curly eyebrow scrunching, face pulling into a grimace as he plucked the cigarette from his mouth. The young man's jaw clenched at the close observation, now a hard line compared to the soft curve that Zeff remembered. There was a tightness in his face as he regarded the old man. His eyes, also, were darker now. A loss of innocence.

_What things have you seen, little eggplant?_

He noticed the long, dark fuzz on Sanji's chin, couldn't help screwing his face into a grimace.

"What happened to your face?"

"It's a goatee, you old fart. And don't call me fucking _eggplant_." The blonde almost spat it in the old man's face, in between puffs. There was a small chuckle from the man to the left.

Zeff couldn’t help but let his face break into a large grin. It took everything in him to not wrap the stupid brat in a bone-crushing hug. Instead, he folded his arms in front of himself, and controlled his face into something more of a smirk. His eyes shifted to the empty deck before them, and the smirk wrinkled itself into a tight frown from confusion.

"Where's your boat, you brat? You know it's best to dock on this side."

"Psh. We walked." Sanji finished his cigarette and flicked it over the balcony into the ocean, walking past the old man and towards the rear of the restaurant. "I'm using the kitchen. The musclehead over there is hungry." He continued nonchalantly, receding into the building and gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder.

It was then that Zeff regarded the other man, who'd been casually leaning against the doorframe. He was much like the eggplant-- age reflected in the angle of his jaw, the definition of his muscles evident through his open robe. He too, was lean, but more solidly built than the lithe blonde. His hair was the color of fresh asparagus, long on the top, locks sweeping backwards across the crown of his skull. The bottom half was closely shaved, however, and his chin showed no signs of stubble. Zeff's eyes lingered on the three golden earrings before flicking back to the man's face. His memory may have been poor at best, but it would have been hard to forget this one, or the event that gave him the large scar across his chest.

"Roronoa Zoro. I remember you."

The swordsman's eyes had been closed until that point, and at the mention of his name, the green haired swordsman opened only the right to reveal a dusky grey iris. The old cook resisted the urge to ask about the scar on the left one; the glare he was fixed with from just one dark eye radiated a piercing kind of power. This man was a killer, for sure. Perhaps now, Zeff thought, he was not so different from the Hawk-eyed man who had defeated him so long ago.

"You do?" Roronoa replied, the low rumble of his voice sounding genuinely surprised, but never shifting his position or breaking the intense glare. "It's been a long time, _ossan_."

Zeff just glared back, fingers twining the end of his long, braided mustache. God, the guy was creepy. How the eggplant could stand living on a ship with him, he’d never know.

Sanji’s gravelled voice broke their staring contest, calling from the Baratie’s kitchen. "Hey asshole,” He yelled, and Zeff saw a shimmer of blonde poking from the galley door as the younger chef leaned out to yell across the dining hall. “Stop scaring my old man and get your ass in here. I'm making you breakfast, you know."

The swordsman snapped a scathing glance in the eggplant's direction. He turned back to Zeff and grumbled, nodding to the older cook and pushing himself off the wall. The swordsman glowered his way across the main dining hall into the Baratie's kitchen.  

He plodded behind the other man slowly, false leg _klunk-klunking_ on the floorboards. He leaned on the door jamb slow, watching them.

"Hmm..." Sanji browsed from cabinet to cabinet, pulling out ingredients. It seemed he remembered the large galley down to the smallest detail, even after his long absence. He didn’t even turn when he spoke to the resident artichoke, already heating up a pan and drizzling it with oil. "Egg frisee with lardons good enough, shithead?"

The green man leaned back lazily and shrugged at the question. Not that the eggplant could have seen, but Zeff assumed this was some normal ritual to them. To Zeff, the languid man seemed not unlike a large, lazy cat.

Sanji cracked a few eggs and let them sizzle in the oil, filling the kitchen with the wonderful smell of breakfast. As he watched his protege, the old man’s mind began to wander. He always read the papers about the Straw Hat Pirates, and even though their captain was not yet Pirate King, he may as well be. Standing in his kitchen was Black Leg Sanji, cooking just like the day he left. Across from him, Pirate Hunter Zoro was pulling out a chair to the kitchen's island and taking a seat. Zeff didn't know much about that man’s past before the Straw Hats, but he knew this was a man of conviction.

Zeff chuckled internally. How high were their bounties now? At least over 200 million beli each, if not more for Roronoa. Two of the most powerful members of the most infamous pirate crew currently sailing the oceans were here, in his kitchen. Eating breakfast, no less.

"So tell me eggplant, why are you here?” He asked finally, letting curiosity better his judgement. ”I heard about the business with that Yaunko, but the papers haven’t said anything else."

"Red hair? Yeah." Sanji paused, flipping the bacon and returning to the eggs. "The captain had some business to take care of; let the crew take a short vacation. This directionally challenged idiot--” he indicated Roronoa with a thumb over his shoulder “--wanted to take a quick trip home and got hungry on the way. So here we are."

Zeff had raised Sanji from when he was just a young boy. Most of all, Zeff knew that Sanji was a damn good liar -- the kid could lie his way out of a bad situation almost as well as he could cook. But, because he’d raised the damn brat, he knew that just like anyone, Sanji had tells. He was tapping his foot, and chewing on the filter of his cigarette. He held his shoulders with a slight hunch as he cooked; not the normal relaxed posture as usual. The young man's clipped tone, too, gave away that there was more to the story than he let on. He had half a mind to open his mouth and grill the eggplant about it, but he was interrupted.

“Oy, ossan. do you have any sake?” The swordsman asked. Zeff chose to ignore his flippant tone, and instead started at the fact that the sun had barely risen and this piece of broccoli was asking for alcohol.

“It’s 7:30 in the morning, boy.” He voiced his concern. The gruffness he infused into his response should have let on he was less than pleased.

“Don’t mind him old geezer, he needs alcohol to photosynthesize,” the eggplant spoke up from his position at the stove. The younger man turned and nodded to Roronoa. “In the walk-in on the left, moss head.”

Zoro responded with a deep grimace, and promptly stood up to enter the walk-in on the right. Zeff snorted as his scowl stretched itself into a wry smile, watching the swordsman’s mistake. Sanji’s back was still turned, cooking.

Zeff crossed his arms and looked to the young blonde when the swordsman walked back out a few minutes later.

“Oi, cook. You must be wrong. I can’t find it,” Roronoa said.

Zeff could see the jaw clench, the cigarette’s filter ground between the eggplant’s teeth before he even turned around. His face was red in anger, shoulders stiff and fists clenched when he finally did.

“You shitty excuse for a swordsman, that’s the right walk in! I said left, damnit!”

Roronoa was indignant, throwing his hands out in front of himself as some sort of defense. “It’s not my fault it moved, idiot dart brow!”

The eggplant made an exasperated sort of noise. He wiped his hands down his face, and stepped aggressively towards his crewmate. “More like your dumbass couldn’t cut your way out of a wet paper bag!”

“You say something, shitty cook?” There was a light chink as one of Roronoa’s swords slid out of its saya. Zeff didn’t even know when his hands had moved.

“Oh, you wanna go seaweed head?” The space between the two of them was vibrating with energy. “Let’s fucking go.”

It was like they’d forgotten that Zeff was even in the room. Sanji was poised with his knee drawn up to his chest, and Roronoa with his red colored katana half-drawn. Zeff thought momentarily that, had they been anywhere else, he’d be interested to see the eggplant fight an equal, possibly a superior. He’d be interested in improvements to the technique, or any additional things the younger man learned during his travels. But all the old man could think about now was how much damage they could do to his damn restaurant -- his dream.

“OI! CUT IT OUT!” Zeff yelled loudly, stopping the fight before it could start by smacking them both over the head with his wooden leg. They let him hit them, and ended up on their asses on the floor.  

Zeff massaged his temples with a thick-fingered, wrinkled hand. “It’s been years, but you haven’t aged a day, eggplant.” He said, his disapproval audible.

Sanji grimaced and rubbed his whiskered face.

Loud thudding came then from below deck, the sound of many feet pounding on the planks below. The sound gave a moment’s pause before the door to the hallway threw itself open, and a large, overly muscled man stepped into the doorway.

“Owner Zeff! We heard fighting! Is everything--” Patty’s face contorted into a confused grimace as several other chefs poked their hatted heads around his shoulders. “... alright?”

Sanji was standing now, wiping the dust from his suit jacket and retying his hair, disheveled from the fight. He casually pulled a cigarette packet from his pocket and extracted one, replacing it and pulling out his lighter. He was halfway to lighting it when he realized the entire room, save for the swordsman quietly washing his dish in the back sink, were staring at him.

Patty’s eyes were trained on the thin, black-clad chef. “Sanji…?”

“What the hell are you gawking at, you shitty cooks?” His body shifted to face the men in the doorway, and Zeff saw the bravado in his stance. “I’m still Assistant Head Chef of this boat. Now get to work.”

Zeff’s eyes flicked over to Patty’s face, which went from confused to livid. “Who the hell do you--”

“Save it, Patty.” The old man waved his cook off and took a step towards Sanji. He could still growl into the eggplant’s face, no matter how large he’d gotten. “You’re nothing but a shitty brat here, pipsqueak.” He poked the blonde in the chest to emphasize his point. “I fired you seven years ago.”

Sanji tutted around the white roll of paper, his eyes shifting over to the left before inhaling and savoring the smoke.  “Tch. I took a leave of absence, shitty old man.”

Zeff growled, deep and low in his throat. “I don’t have time for your bullshit today, eggplant.” He turned to the cooks in the door. “Well, what are you assholes sitting around for? Get to work! Today’s a big day!”

“Yes, Owner Zeff!” They responded with salutes, and promptly dissipated from the doorway, making themselves busy with tasks they knew were necessary.

He turned back to Sanji and sighed, running a palm down his face. “Brat, you’re with me. We’re on menu planning and prep. And… “ He gestured to the swordsman on the other side of the room, who was currently draining his sake bottle. Apparently he’d found the correct walk-in during the argument. “Make that green bean useful before he drinks all my booze.”    

Sanji smirked, burning butt clutched between his incisors. “With pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's been bouncing around in my head for a long long time. Finally was able to clean this chapter up enough to post this weekend. Now onto finishing the next two chapters of Unexpected. Trying to break down that wall. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated, thanks :)


	2. Chapter 2

_Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago_

_Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword_

_Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know_

_I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door_

From Eden, Hozier

 

* * *

 

The old man stood with his arms folded, eyes wandering between the cutter’s hull and the men leaning on the rigging as the delivery boat mosied up to the the Baratie’s deck. He breathed in the salty air, and listened to the men negotiate their landing with some of the porter boys they’d hired last week.  

Above the light slapping of waves and low murmurs of the men, he could hear loud cursing and a clatter of glass, or maybe broken ceramic. Zeff grit his teeth and growled as he tilted his head towards the Baratie’s large red door, focusing on the sounds from the kitchen. The whole damn restaurant would be broken by the time that shitty brat left, not to mention some of his cooks. With a deep sigh he shook his head and turned back to the task at hand, deciding to pick his battles rather than start off the morning with a fight. His blood pressure was high enough. Things were actually working pretty smooth with the addition of Sanji’s capable hands; The morning’s meal planning was already finished, which allowed Zeff to oversee the morning’s packages.

The cutter’s oaken topside bumped up against the Baratie’s, and two gruff-looking crewmen from the delivery boat leapt out from the gunwale to tether the two vessels together. A wave and a nod passed between Zeff and the boat’s captain, visible from the boat’s wheelhouse window. Thomas was a good man, if not a little eccentric, but Zeff was thankful that he took the time to make this delivery from Loguetown. Its contents were a last minute request from tonight’s patrons.

Gray eyes listed over to the porters from earlier, who were milling about while Tommy’s crew were mustering the supplied.

“Well? Get to it, you damn brats,” He growled harshly, snapping his fingers at them. To Zeff’s great pleasure, it had the desired effect: lighting a fire under their lazy asses as they scrambled to help unload the damn boat.

A heavy breath passed his lips as he _klunk-klunked_ his way over to lean against the Baratie’s outer wall and watch the unloading process. The old man resisted the urge to grumble at the porters fumbling boxes, and shifted his weight. His ghostly limb was giving him trouble today, more trouble than usual. No matter how much he tried to shift the weight on to his remaining foot, pain lanced across the severed end like pinpricks, just enough to make the old man uncomfortable, and perhaps just a touch more irritable.

The old man found his eyes wandering past the boys unloading -- they were doing a satisfactory job for now -- and landing on the opposite deck. Roronoa was lazing on the far end, stretched out like a tom-cat napping in the late morning sunshine. Hm. Seems like the eggplant had failed in his task of putting the grass-headed swordsman to work. Maybe he’d take the initiative to kick _his_ ass into gear, too. He could probably carry the whole damn boat inside, make this job a hell of a lot easier for everyone involved.

The thought turned over in his brain, flopping like freshly kneaded dough. The swordsman had taken the kick well this morning, would he tolerate being rudely awakened by the old man a second time? Did he dare antagonize the most dangerous man in East Blue?

Calloused fingers tapped against his chin, fiddled with the end of his mustache as his eyes shifted back to the cutter, and the boxes it carried now fully unloaded onto the deck. He pushed himself up to hobble over to say his goodbyes, only to watch as one of his new hires fumbled the last, awkwardly shaped package. The kid fell on his face and the box bounced across the deck, certain to jostle the items contained inside. Normally the old man would just bellow and growl and scare the shit out of the boy, but today was different.   _What’s-his-name… Jerry? Johnny? Hell,_ Zeff dragged an exasperated palm down his face as he cussed and kicked the poor kid out of the way, ignoring the spidering twinge of pain as his peg connected with the kid’s ribcage. These packages were fucking delicate, if the giant _FRAGILE_ stamp on the side didn’t say it enough. He couldn’t just let them go slinging around.

Zeff’s bones grumbled as much as his throat while he bent over to pick up the box. His hands came around the corners, and he paused. Steel-toed, black leather oxfords tapped impatiently under his nose. He hadn’t even heard the eggplant approach.

“What are you doing, shitty old man?”

Instead of answering his question, Zeff just groused. “Beat it, brat. Aren’t you supposed to be in the kitchen?” With effort he straightened, ignoring again the protests of his aging body. When he was fully upright, Sanji placed his hands on the opposite corners, stopping any further movement.

Gray eyes met blue, and Zeff felt his mustache twitch in irritation.

“You beat it, ancient history.” The eggplant tilted his head over his shoulder to the stack of the white plastic chairs some of the chefs were setting out on deck. “Sit your old ass down before you break the good leg.”

Zeff’s teeth ground together at this brat’s smartass attitude. Ire rose in his chest as he glared hard into the blonde’s visible eye, meeting that challenge head-on. Looks like he _was_ picking a fight this morning, despite his earlier efforts. His eyes wandered from the slight crinkles in the eggplant’s cheeks to the chairs he’d indicated earlier. His knee ached where it met the prosthetic, and his lower back was killing him from being on his feet all morning. _Shit._ He might be going soft with age.

He sighed in reluctant defeat, letting the box rest wholly on the young chef’s arms. “ _Both_ my legs are good, you ungrateful pipsqueak,” He growled, and hobbled over to sit down in the chair. Damn him if he let out a satisfied groan at the weight lifted from his legs.

“Oi, marimo. Get over here and help me with this,” He called to the man slumbering softly, slipping a cigarette out of his lapel around the box he was holding and lighting it. Zeff grimaced. What was that, his fourth of the morning? He needed to have a conversation with this brat.

The sleeping man snorted loudly, and grumbled as his eye opened halfway.

“Do it yourself, swirly. I’m busy.”

“Get your mossy ass over here or you’re getting air for lunch, shithead.” Sanji spat back, jaw clenching around his tobacco and eyes narrowed at his crewmate.

Zeff spared the eggplant a curious glance, felt his brows knit together in silent thought. Surely he hadn’t meant that threat; it wasn’t like the little string bean to deprive anyone of food, no matter the person. The fact that he’d said such a thing to a supposed nakama made him frown. The old man filed this thought away. Maybe the boy had changed more than he’d realized.

The threat had the desired effect, however. Roronoa cursed the cook under his breath, and reluctantly stood to amble over and help.

Sanji set the box in his arms down on the table next to the old man, a visible and curled eyebrow raised in curiosity at the shape of the boxes as he opened one up, puffing out clouds of smoke. He pulled out a white lily, one of many of the fresh flowers contained within.

“What are these for anyway?” He asked, twirling one of the dainty things between his dextrous and scar-lined fingers.

“If I tell you… you better be on your best damn behavior,” Zeff grumbled. Whenever he’d held these types of events in the past, the eggplant would go all ridiculous and noodly. He’d made sure to teach the boy respect for the fairer sex, but not all the fawning bullshit he’d grown into.

Sanji set his jaw. “Try me, you old bastard,” he said, and the swordsman gave him a sidelong glance as he walked past in the background with more boxes.

“It’s a wedding.” Zeff huffed.

The eggplant’s face broke out into a large, boyish grin.

“A wedding?” He clasped his hands around the lily and brought it up to his face. Zeff groaned internally as he watched the blue eyes glaze over with a starry fantasy. “With a beautiful angel for a bride? She is today’s stunning goddess! I will personally ensure how perfect and amazing her special day will be!” The blonde pirouetted on his toes around the table.  

“Tch,” Roronoa scoffed, rolling his eyes and stalking behind him with an arm full of boxes. "Ero-maygue," he muttered, putting the boxes down on the table and walking out to grab more. The suddenness of the insult’s meaning made Zeff snort in laughter. He decided he rather liked this Roronoa character… and maybe he'd have to pick that one up for himself.

The brat restrained himself with effort, face contorting back into something resembling a displeased grimace. He ashed his cigarette and took a deep inhale from it, placing the lily back into the box with care.

When Roronoa plodded back by, the eggplant turned on his heel and kicked the swordsman in the back of the knee, hard. The green bean only barely managed to not fall face down on the floor, and set the stack of boxes down there before flashing back with a fist around the blonde’s tie, yanking him forward and winding up for a left hook.

“God damnit -- _no fighting_!” The old man roared at them, and they froze. Roronoa released the eggplant’s tie, and stepped back, folding his arms across his chest. Sanji straightened his shirt, glaring daggers at the swordsman, but making no move to antagonize him further. For what felt like the hundredth time that morning, Zeff ran a hand down his wrinkled cheek. “Just... put the damn things on the sills and in the vases. Ask Patty if you have any questions.”

“Like _hell_ I’d ask that two-bit cook for anything…” The eggplant muttered under his breath, taking a long drag off his now-bent cigarette.

Zeff’s patience was growing short. “Sanji!” He barked.

“Yeah, yeah,” The eggplant dismissed him with a tutting wave. “Don’t have a stroke you old fart. You hear that marimo? No fighting.”

“Whatever,” came the blasé response from the swordsman.

Zeff deadpanned at the two of them, before shaking his head and plodding away. He decided he ought to leave before he busted a blood vessel.

The rest of the morning went by quickly. Zeff had his hands full; he bid Thomas and crew goodbye before tackling the task of changing the curtains. He wished these idiot cooks would _keep the damn tablecloths clean, damnit, they don’t need your fucking footprints you morons,_ but a few of them still had to go back into the wash after all the windows finally matched the bride’s chosen decor. They received several other deliveries of fresh food supplies-- some for the dinner, some for the cake, and a surplus of alcohol. The wedding that evening was supposed to have some hundred guests. It was a small affair for the Baratie, but no less important. A hundred mouths was still a lot to feed.  

He hobbled past Carne and a few of the junior chefs eating a late lunch, when he felt his stomach grumble. Shit. He needed something to eat if he was planning to stay on his feet for several more hours.

“You get anything on that tablecloth and I will gut you myself,” He growled as he passed.  

“Oh! Owner Zeff!” Carne called out as the old man made his way to the kitchen. “Careful, those morons are in there!”

“Fantastic,” The old man grumbled. He wanted to deal with those two like a hole in the damn head.

He rounded the doorway to the kitchen, and found the eggplant in the middle of constructing some simple sandwiches for himself and the swordsman. A large map of the surrounding islands were spread out over one section of the central prep table, cleared of the earlier clutter. Zeff was intrigued; they looked hand-drawn. He wondered absently where they got such a thing.

The blonde peered over the map while slicing tomatoes off to the side. “So what one did you say you were from? Are you sure that’s it?” He pointed casually with the knife.

“Yeah, Shimotsuki,” The green bean responded, stealing a slice from under Sanji’s hand. “That one.”

Sanji slapped his hand away but was too late, and the broccoli-head shoved some tomato into his cheeks. The cook shook it off and set the half-sliced tomato aside to grasp a freshly washed head of lettuce, leaning over at the map again. “That says Sugar Spice, dumbass. Can’t you read? Look, it’s this one. Shi-mo-tsu-ki.”

“I know how to pronounce it, curly brow.” The swordsman grimaced, but then turned curious, peering at the map. “Shit, is it really that one?”

Sanji ran a palm down his face in frustration. “... Yes. Fucking moron,” He snapped, and pushed the swordsman’s face in a mock slap. It almost pushed the thicker man off his chair.

It was like someone flicked a switch on the swordsman’s irritation. Roronoa grabbed the pale wrist and hauled himself closer to the cook, standing and baring his teeth right in the eggplant’s face. “What the fuck is your problem, cook?” He growled out, ignoring the way the blonde tapped the knife threateningly on the cutting board.

“What the hell do you want, shitty old man?” he barked, eyes never leaving the staring contest.

Zeff saw the green bean break the glare and shift his gaze to the old man. He hadn’t realized that Zeff had been watching the whole exchange. Something flit behind that dark eye and he straightened his aggressive stance, dropping his grip on the eggplant’s wrist. Roronoa glanced at the blonde once more before growling something too quiet for the old man to hear and stalked out the door to the rear deck.

“Just wanted some lunch, eggplant. Sorry to… _interrupt_ ,” The old man quipped, voice dripping with sarcasm.

The brat sighed, any irony soaring over his head. Narrow shoulders slumped as he turned back to the unfinished sandwiches. “It’s nothing, forget it. He’ll get over it.” He waved his hand dismissively, pushing around the smoke in the air.

Hm. Zeff thought there was something that flew over his own head in that unexpected reaction, but decided against any query. The kid could be a fucking mystery, sometimes.

Instead he went about taking stock of ingredients, thinking about what he could possibly make himself for lunch. It had to be something quick, but hearty enough to give him a good spike of energy without making him tired.

“Here, old man,” The blonde said, pushing the first plate with a finished sandwich his way. “Take this one. I’ll make another for that idiot marimo.”

“Hn,” Zeff grunted in agreement and thanks, pulling over a stool to sit down.

He appraised the sandwich -- a brioche bun, some kind of grilled meat. Chicken, maybe? It smelled spicy, and he spotted a creative chipotle aioli, some avocado in there as well to balance out the texture. Hm, interesting. He took a bite, and chewed the sandwich slowly, savoring the work and flavor the eggplant had put into it. He’d improved since he left the restaurant, but Zeff thought he’d keep that to himself for now.

He decided to broach the subject that’d been nagging at him all day. "Why don't you tell me why you're really here, eggplant. I'm not dumb enough to think the most powerful captain of the sea would send his crew off on a whim, even if it is my former Errand Boy."   

Sanji stopped cutting for a moment, and fiddled with the cigarette in his mouth. He put the knife down, glancing between the old man and the sandwich he was making and picking his words carefully. “Luffy... needed to go alone. Well, mostly alone. He’s gathering up allies, figured it would be better if he didn’t look like he was attacking anyone by bringing the crew along.”

Zeff’s chewing slowed as he processed this information, turning it over in his mind. “...Allies?” He mused aloud, confused at the ultimate goal of the Straw Hats’ captain.

Sanji sighed then, taking a long drag as he finished chopping. He constructed the rest of the sandwich and set it aside, exhaling a long cloud and taking a seat on the adjacent side of the table.

A pale hand ran through blonde hair. "What we have to do next... It's going to be big. Dangerous. Crazy. More than anything else we've ever done."

The way he spoke made Zeff’s stomach turn, and he swallowed, throat suddenly dry despite the water he’d been drinking with his meal. He knew all the crazy shit the Straw Hat Pirates got themselves into, and this was going to be the worst of them all...? How bad could it really be?

Sanji rubbed his temples and the old man took another bite, willing himself to stay quiet as he listened for more information. This was what had the blonde so agitated, and damn if he wasn’t going to hear the whole thing.

The Sunny's cook ashed his cigarette, staring through the table. "It's ...probably going to be a one-way trip. Shit,” the blonde cursed under his breath, leaning his forehead on the hand that wasn’t holding burning paper. “If we’d only just gone to Raftel and turned around, --”

"To where?" Zeff asked, his gravelly voice weaker than he would have liked. “One way trip to where?”

Sanji's voice was barely a whisper. He knit his fingers together and leaned his mouth into them. Zeff could see the end of the cigarette bobbing up and down beneath them as he spoke.  

"Mariejois. We're going to destroy it. Blow it up."

Zeff stilled. His free hand clenched into a fist on the table, the old weathered knuckles turning white.

"So this is a goodbye trip." Zeff said, searching the eggplant’s face. It wasn't a question. _One last farewell before they run off to their deaths._ "You stupid, ignorant brats," he breathed, eyes finally meeting the blonde’s in front of him. What he saw there was fear, and an apology.  

"We don't really have a choice," A deep voice reverberated from the doorway. Roronoa had re-entered, having dealt with his earlier irritation. "At this point, it's the only way forward."

Zeff’s eyes followed the eggplant’s as both of their gazes landed on the swordsman. The younger man had his arms crossed and his eyes closed; a sort of no-nonsense stance that made the old codger understand why this was the man that was the Straw Hats’ first mate. But he was also frustrated with the finality of it all.

Sanji huffed then, rifling his fingers through his hair and pulling the old man from his thoughts.

"Yes, yes, grim and fatalistic," he huffed, standing up as he tried to shake his gloomy mood. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a cluster of algae to feed."

The blonde picked up the plates from the prep table and placed them on his arm with expert care. He nodded to the door in wordless communication; Roronoa sneered, but understood as he exited the door in front of the chef.  

Zeff’s eyes followed them out. They didn't miss the pale hand placed firmly on the other man's lower back to guide him out of the galley.

 

* * *

 

Sanji almost threw the plate at the marimo, and sat down at the table. He propped his feet up on the wrought iron top, eyes scanning the tips of waves that spread out over the water’s surface in front of them. East Blue, in the flesh.

This was the sea he’d grown up on. This was the place he owed a debt, and started a new life; the sea he’d learned how to cook from, how to swim in.

He thought about the swordsman behind him, an old memory working its way to the surface. This sea -- this restaurant -- was the place he’d learned how to follow his dreams.

How long had it been since he was standing here, watching Zoro get cut within an inch of his life? He could still remember the spray of blood that arced over the glittering waves, the rage he felt at the other man’s foolishness. How it now had become a quality he endlessly admired.

He didn’t know if it was that moment that started it all, but here he was. Here both their futures had started, whether it be intentional or not. Maybe the upcoming battle was making him nervous, or the wave of nostalgia that hit him like a brick wall, but he missed those simpler times. When it was just the five of them as small time pirates, bumming around from island to island. The East Blue crew, unaware of the intricacies of global politics and how ugly the world had become.  

"Lotta memories," Zoro rumbled around a mouthful, reading the cook's mind. Sanji guessed they'd been nakama long enough -- hell, they’d been lovers long enough -- for that to not bother him, but it was still unnerving how easily they could pick up on each other’s moods. “Don’t get all sappy on me now, cook.”

He didn’t turn his head to see the look the marimo had fixed him with, he knew that cocky smirk when he heard it. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, moron,” He commented instead, and ashed his cigarette on the edge of the table.  

Zoro didn’t reply, and Sanji listened to him chewing and swallowing. When the swordsman spoke again, he spoke low and quiet.

“Your old man is watching us,” he pointed out. Sanji resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the moss-head, and at the window behind him.

He knew well enough that shitty old geezer had been watching them since they walked out to the deck. Sanji’s haki had alerted him to the older man’s looming presence, and he knew he’d slipped up. The intimate gesture he’d made by guiding Zoro out was probably enough to make the old man suspicious. It was the kind of thing he’d become used to -- a result of being as comfortable with someone else’s body as your own. It was nothing he couldn’t explain away, though, if the old man decided to start asking questions.  

“I know,” Sanji sighed, enjoying the smoke caressing the inside of his lungs. “Think he’s figured it out?”

He felt more than heard the shrug from behind him. “Dunno what you’re so worried about.”

A long, tired breath left his lips, taking with it a cloud of nicotine and tar. This was a topic they’d tried to cover many different places, over many different situations. Sanji wasn’t about to rip it open again.

“We’re not having this conversation,” He said plainly.

There was a long silence while Sanji finished his cigarette, and Zoro finished his sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hc that Zoro probably needs glasses.
> 
> Also, omg I managed to write something.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no post. just took a while to get past a block... let me reassure you that i haven't forgotten about this and it's very important to me that i get it right. so it will continue, if a bit slowly. 
> 
> please enjoy!

_The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine_

_Open hand or closed fist would be fine_

_The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine_

Cherry Wine, Hozier.

 

* * *

 

The guests began to arrive at sunset.

They filtered in off skiffs and boats, mostly well-to-dos from nearby Loguetown or otherwise. As a rule, Zeff wasn’t too fond of nobles, but this bunch seemed nice enough for their societal standing. They weren’t quite rude enough to piss him off and some of them were being downright civil to the waitstaff, which was surprising. At least they paid well, and he made note of the staff with more difficult patrons. He’d give them a bonus for the unpleasant company.

The sun was just slipping below the waves when he greeted the groom and officiant. The young man grinned something fierce, and Zeff couldn’t help but let a smirk crawl upon his lips as he directed them on the procedure for the night.

It would be traditional as weddings go, a palette of white and gold with a rich navy accent in the drapes and table settings. The Baratie itself looked stunning, dressed to the nines, and Zeff felt the swell of pride at his establishment as he gestured to the center of the floor. It was cleared for the ceremony; the lattice with the fresh lilies from earlier woven into the rungs marked where the vows would take place. The white folding chairs laid out before it would be folded following the ceremony, the lattice taken away, and the band would set up on the temporary stage set against the wall for the reception.

They nodded and thanked him and shook hands, and Zeff tried to keep his nice face on for the duration. He saw them off to their proper places before letting his mouth slide back into its usual grimace, trying to busy himself with plates and place settings. He tried to stay out of the growing crowd as much as possible, already sick of the small airs he’d had to put on. Absently, the old man wondered why he hadn’t let the eggplant handle this part. Prim and proper was much more his type of thing, anyway.

He found a nice little place for himself in the corridor, leaning against the empty jamb and taking the weight off his leg when the ceremony began. If they’d done their job right -- which, they damn well better have, or the staff would face hell in the morning -- the rest of the night would be smooth sailing.

The bride emerged through the Baratie’s deep red and wrought iron doors. She was flawless; the pristine white dress snug around her small waist, blossoming out to a wide, elegant hoop. She walked with practiced grace down the aisle, arm in arm with someone Zeff assumed was her father. His old eyes rested upon her perfect, dark curls, resting against her bosom. Her wide almond eyes, her brilliant smile.  

With a deep breath of the salty evening breeze, he was reminded of a woman he once knew.

He could see her now, that short frame bent over and a knife held high, arms covered in blood up to her elbows as she butchered the boys’ latest catch. That woman was a little rounder around the edges, and more beautiful for it, he’d always thought. On days like that he’d call her name from the mizzen rigging and watch as she’d turn to him with a stellar, toothy smile; those round, rosy and freckled cheeks pinching up towards almond-shaped eyes. Her short-cropped, curly mess of red she called hair barely controlled under a dirty and stained bandanna, strands of it waving and whipping in the fresh ocean air.

He could almost hear the brogue as she shouted back at him: _“What’re ye doin there, ya dirty bird! Get yer arse dan’ere an elp me, eh?”_

He felt the a wistful grin on his face, and the pain of a wound reopened lanced through his chest.

_It’s been a long time, Maggie dear._

They’d plucked her from a rival ship they’d dashed on the rocks of some remote island in the grand line. She’d just been a small kitchen girl then, far from her home in West Blue, pleading with them to take her away from that desolate place. Any pity Zeff or his crew held for her predicament vanished the instant she was on board.

The woman was like a firecracker; a small package with a hell of an attitude, bossing his boys around and telling them how to do their own jobs and do them better, even though they placed her as no more than a glorified janitor. She was stubborn and headstrong, young and so, so _stupid_ \-- a wry grin crossed his face at the time she tried to spear a sea king _by herself_ \-- but as she grew the crew grew with her.  After a while she’d just been an integral part of them: the Mags, Mag-monster, Maggie May. It got to the point where the ship felt strange to the crew if you couldn’t hear her hollering about one thing or another.

She’d always have some new ingredient to surprise her captain with, slipping it into his meal during prep and watching him gauge the taste. Sometimes they’d spend hours chatting on the bow about recipes, or the _right_ way to sear a flounder.

Of course he’d been swept away by her gregarious nature, her _loveliness_.

His first mate Otto picked up on his feelings before he even knew they were there.

“ _We’ve all seen ‘ow you look at er,”_ He’d said one day, nudging Zeff in the ribs as they watched her from the aft deck. _“Just go for it, cap. None of us mind if she sticks around for a while.”_

But a woman her size only had so much blood. He remembered how it’d felt -- warm and thick and slick, seeping into the white cloth of his sleeve, the whites across his chest turning black as he held her lifeless body, desperately checking for a pulse. The emptiness of her eyes blocking out the thundering of cannon fire.

But that had been another lifetime.

“That’s a look I haven’t seen in a while, old geezer.”

Zeff blinked, brought back to the present, the Baratie, the wedding. He hadn’t heard the eggplant approach for the second time that day. That brat had gotten sneakier.

“Shut up, eggplant. Go sit your ass down, I thought you loved this bullshit.” He snapped, throwing out a hand towards the ceremony. The bride and groom were going through vows after all, it wouldn’t do to interrupt.

The eggplant said nothing and shoved one hand in his pants pocket. With the other he fiddled with an unlit cigarette, a smile curling at the end of his lip as he placed it in his mouth.

“You miss her?” He asked quietly.

“Hn.” The old man grunted, but it was enough for the eggplant to know it was agreement.

To turn the focus off himself, Zeff turned from the ceremony and elbowed the boy lightly. “When are you gonna settle down, pipsqueak?” He mumbled back, regardless of the situation he knew they faced. “Give me some damn grandchildren to spoil, or something,” He quipped. An old man could hope, anyway.

“Hah.” The eggplant laughed, wistfully, bitterly. There was a moment’s silence as Sanji stared at his shoes, eyes shielded by those damned bangs.

Zeff felt his mouth settle into a deep frown, his heart clench at the eggplant’s reaction. That boy… he used to love fantasizing about the life he would have, the woman he would meet to settle with, the children they would have. So much so that it made all the cooks on shift with him want to vomit. The old man couldn’t help but lament the loss of vigor, the loss of innocence in his precious child.

But before he could open his mouth to ask, Sanji looked him in the eye.

“Old geezer,” He said firmly, “I need to tell you something.”

Zeff closed his mouth and appraised the young man, folding his arms across his chest. The eggplant’s confession earlier about the true reason for their visit had assuaged that fidgeting tension, but there was still something bothering him. Something that prevented the boy from relaxing completely. Zeff noticed the blood coloring the eggplant’s cheeks, the half-empty wine glass in his hand, and recognized this conversation for what it was. A rare talk with the man he knew as his son.

“Okay. I’m listening, brat.”

The ceremony concluded as Zeff waited and Sanji gathered his thoughts. He watched the staff pick up the chairs and move them to the side, the bustle of persons around the newly procured dance floor.

Wine swirled in the boy’s glass, and he turned bodily towards the old man, finally mustering whatever courage he could find.

“I….” The eggplant started but trailed off, chewing on his lip. Zeff watched as he looked at the floor, taking a slow inhale to prepare himself. Started again: “I--”

A tap on his shoulder broke his concentration.

“E-excuse me… Black Leg Sanji?”

They both turned to find a young woman observing them. She was shapely, for sure -- almost busting out of her bridesmaid’s dress, dark brown hair framing her cleavage elegantly as she faced them both with a practiced pout.

Sanji looked hesitantly from Zeff to the girl and back, before turning fully to her.

“Yes, my beautiful angel?” He placated, and Zeff rolled his eyes.

She blushed at his response, covering her mouth. “Would you… like to dance?”

“Of course, my dear.”

He watched them walk out to the dance floor, and found Sanji shooting him an apologetic glance. Zeff was taken aback for at _least_ two reasons: the eggplant didn’t seem to have any sort of nosebleed, and he wasn’t even _remotely_ swooning over this shapely young woman.

The old man got the idea that he’d been missing something incredibly important.   

* * *

Zoro sat at a table, leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the clean and white tablecloth. He brought the fresh bottle of sake to his lips and took a swig, letting the bitter liquid slosh about his tongue, savoring the bite on the back of his palate.

In front of him, a throng of bodies thrusted and gyrated to the upbeat music played by whatever band the bridal party had chosen for their reception. They weren’t bad, no, but Zoro wasn’t picky about music in general. Perhaps it was a little loud.

His eyes scanned the crowd and found a bouncing blonde head, followed by a flash of teeth as the cook threw his head back in a laugh. Zoro knew from experience that the cook was fantastic at dancing, and wasn’t the slightest bit surprised that he’d hit the dance floor as soon as he could. He’d been obnoxious and irritating all day; it could only benefit them both if Sanji loosened up a bit.  

Dark eyes followed the fabric clinging to the blonde’s long legs and firm ass as they twisted, stepped, twisted again. It was strange to see these things he thought of as weapons -- and they _were_ weapons -- appear so harmless and quaint. Could anyone here imagine the cook in a full blown rage, fire leaking from every pore as he struck down a Shichibukai with one kick? Probably not. It was one of Zoro’s favorite visions, nonetheless.  

He watched strong and muscled hips undulate to the music, grinding up against one of the bridesmaids -- the brunette with big boobs, he knew that stupid cook would go for her. Predictable as ever. The cook twirled her around, and even in the low light Zoro could pick out the deep flush on his cheeks. He was smashed, for sure; nervousness giving way to excessive drinking as he tried to forget about his old man watching their every move. At least he was still upright. Maybe he would dance it off by the time they went to bed, and he’d make the cook’s cheeks flush for an entirely different reason.

The cook bent over, twirled her out and then back again. He pulled her close, and blue eyes met the swordsman’s over her shoulder. For a minute Sanji seemed stunned that the marimo was even watching, but then his face broke into a huge grin, and he winked.  

Zoro scoffed internally, tamping down the smirk threatening to overwhelm his face with another swig of sake. He’d stopped being jealous of the cook and his playful courting a long time ago. He knew that shitty dartbrow was just having a good time. The poor girl in his arms would never be able to take it as good as he gave it. She would never see him spread open, never see him come apart piece by piece, he would never cry out her name.

 _Shit_. He shifted his legs, adjusting his pants. He needed to stop thinking about this in public.

A low, uneven thudding to his right alerted him to the old man’s presence. He knew the guy was pretty much like Sanji’s father, but the way he’d been hovering all day was rather annoying. He absently wondered if Koshiro would hover the same way when they got to Shimotsuki, but no. Koshiro was his teacher, his _sensei_ \-- not a father figure.

“You done emptying my liquor cabinet yet, boy?” Zeff grumbled at the swordsman, pulling out a chair and sitting next to the swordsman at a respectable distance. Zoro eyed the two empty bottles on the table before him before turning back to the old man with a smirk.

“Nah. There's still a few bottles left,” He quipped back.

The old man just grumbled in response, and Zoro’s smirk deepened.

“Look at that brat, making a fool of himself…” Zeff quipped, following Zoro’s previous gaze. “Why don’t you go out there and have some fun, kid?” He asked, and Zoro paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth.

Maybe it was the burning oil from the lamps mixing with the cool ocean breeze, maybe it was the alcohol dulling his senses. Zoro found himself in a memory.

_The shitty cook stood in front of the sink smoking, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he finished washing the night’s dishes. His tie was hung on the hinge of the open porthole, forgotten. Zoro watched him from his seat at the table in the otherwise empty galley, feeling himself nodding off, hypnotized into relaxation by the light music from Brook’s violin filtering in from the window and the quiet clanking of dishes against the drying rack._

_“Marimo, come over here.” Sanji commanded quietly._

_His eyes snapped open at the sharp speech, breaking the quiet calm in the kitchen. The cook had turned towards him in the dim light, drying his hands with a dish towel._

_“What now, cook?” He groused, sitting up slowly from where his head had fallen on the table._

_The dartbrow grit his teeth around his cigarette, jaw jutting out at an angle. “I’m trying to dance with you, idiot. Just... get over here.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”_

_“Alright alright,” Zoro grumbled, pushing himself to stand._

_He stepped over to the cook, careful to keep his footsteps light. The galley was quiet and lit by the gas lamp in the corner; if his steps were too loud, he felt it would shatter the truce that hung delicately between them._

_“Now, follow my lead, you dumb animal,” the cook spat._

_Zoro huffed in futile protest, but put his hands in the position. Sanji’s hand, cold from washing dishes, met his own warm one in the mild air. Another wrapped itself around his waist._

_The cook stepped and his feet followed without question, closing his eye. He felt out with that other sense, predicting the cook’s steps so that it wasn’t evident he’d forgotten them. It wasn’t long before he lost himself in the movement, the rhythm of the quiet music soothing him into a state not unlike his meditation._

_They slowed their movement with the measures, and when the music stopped, Zoro’s eye slid open. There was a small smile on the cook’s face, eyes still closed and humming the closing bars slightly off key, those delicate fingers still gesturing the beats, even as they wrapped around his own calloused hands. It pulled at something in Zoro’s chest, stringing tight like the horsehair and rosin on Brook’s violin. He couldn't resist meeting those thin lips in a long, slow kiss._

“Not really the dancing type,” He snorted back to the old man, taking a deep swig of the bottle.

“Ah, well. “ Zeff lamented, the conversation giving way to the music.

They sat in companionable silence.

Dark eyes looked past the dancing bodies to the Baratie itself. It’d been forever since they were here; another lifetime since they’d first met the cook in some stuffy floating restaurant. But as soon as Luffy sent them all away, as soon as they found out the fate they faced, he’d knew they’d be coming back. This place vibrated with the cook’s energy. It was his home after all, and he knew the cook couldn’t move on without giving this place a final sendoff.

He looked sidelong at the old man. That weathered face seemed to have withered since earlier in the morning. Instead of gruff, now he just looked… tired.

The swordsman leaned forward so he wouldn’t have to shout over the music, casting his eyes over at the old cook. As he moved closer Zeff sat up straighter, casting the younger man a wary eye.

“Oi, ossan…” He started, not quite sure how to pry properly. “Did you know? About the whole… _Vinsmoke_ thing?”

Zeff’s grey and faded eyes blinked at him, lips pressing into a line, and Zoro wondered if he’d crossed some kind of forbidden threshold.

“Hah,” The old man laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “I knew enough about it to know it was bad news if they found him. That brat told us barely anything. I never got the full story, not anymore than what was in the papers at least, and we all know you can’t trust that shit.”

Zoro hummed in agreement around the mouth of the bottle. He hadn’t experienced it directly, but the ordeal surrounding the cook’s marriage and subsequent un-marriage was something he’d like to soon forget. He’d have to open the next bottle in a minute.

“Sometimes government men came around,” The old man continued, reminiscing. “Sometimes it was these... _Cipher Pol_ kind of men. That boy’d always known ahead of time somehow. We knew they were looking for him. But it was obvious he didn’t want to be found.”

Zeff ran a calloused hand across his lips. “He’d shaved his eyebrows off, once. Dyed his hair, sometimes. I taught him to fight soon enough, so he’d stop pissing himself every time one of those goons came around.”

The swordsman allowed himself a wry smile at that. He knew a young cook would have been too much of a shithead to be even close to pissing himself, and  that the old man was probably exaggerating a bit. But, it was his way of getting across the cook’s fear when he was young.

“You’re the one who taught him to kick like that?” Zoro mumbled, more to himself than the old man listening in, but Zeff had heard nonetheless. “He told me about what happened,” Zoro explained his thought, gesturing with the neck of the bottle and glancing sidelong at the old man. “With your leg and all…”

Zeff narrowed his eyes, leaning back in his chair and tilting his chin up at the swordsman. “He told you about that?” He asked, curiosity evident in his tone. “He must trust you quite a lot for someone he can't stop kicking in the face,” he mused.

Zoro shrugged, and looked away. He knew the dim lighting would take care of the awkward flush on his face, but took another swig of sake to make sure it was covered.

“I wouldn’t know,” he managed.

A figure was moving towards them from the floor, and Zoro looked up. His own eyes locked with pale blue ones, and he managed to keep his face placid by taking another pull from the bottle.  

“Don't you two look cozy.” That shitty cook pulled out a chair next to him, and Zoro scoffed internally. Of course he would do some shit like that. “What are we talking about?” the swirly brow asked, obviously uncomfortable with he and Zeff conversing at _all_.

“Idiot cooks,” Zoro snapped back, before he could stop himself. He just couldn’t resist an opportunity to rile the cook, and felt his lip curl as Zeff let out a sharp peal of laughter. The dartbrow, meanwhile, turned a nice shade of purple.

He felt the kick coming before it even started, the subtle shift in the cook’s weight, a slight tap of his toe on the floor. _Wadō_ was halfway out of her sheath by the the time Sanji’s foot descended towards his temples. But, instead of steel on steel, Sanji’s foot smacked loudly against Zeff’s hardened palm.

Zoro blinked, and was mildly impressed that the old man’s hand hadn’t shattered on impact.

“Curdle your custard, eggplant,” the geezer groused, mustache twitching, and shoved the foot and the long leg attached to it back towards the floor.

The curly cook let out a low _tch_ through his teeth, muttering under his breath about shitty old men who can still take kicks. Zoro snorted into the remnants of his bottle.

“Marimo,” the cook turned to him suddenly. “Come with me. I need a smoke.”

Zoro raised an eyebrow, draining the last of his carefully procured sake. “Eh? Can't hold it yourself?” He cajoled, not quite keen on moving from his comfortable position.

“Just… Come _on_ , you fucking moron,” the cook jerked his head, teeth grit around an unlit cigarette, not rising to the swordsman's bait. Something shifted in Zoro’s stomach, and he knew exactly what that shitty dartbrow was trying to get him to do. This was no ordinary request.

His eyes flicked over to the old man, who’d been watching the entire exchange. Zeff shrugged.

“If you assholes are gonna fight, just do it outside,” he commented, waving them off. Zoro followed the cook across the floor. He watched the old man from the corner of his vision; Zeff only returned to his seat and his wine, and paid no more attention to either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the song brook plays in the galley scene is romanze by tchaikovsky. super great and highly recommended (aka totally something sanji would get romantic to) but any other possible songs that you think are appropriate are welcome as well. :)
> 
> hope this lived up to expectations! just want to say i love you guys and thanks for reading... this is like my most popular fic somehow and it makes me sooooo happy when i read your comments :))))


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we have another :) two chaps left. 
> 
> warning for some sexual content.

_Heathens kiss softly_

_From their mouths there's nothing_

_They cruelly come gently_

_With violent lips smashing_

Heathen's Kiss, Horse Feathers.

 

* * *

 

Sanji grabbed his hand as they entered the empty corridor between the kitchen and the dining hall, tugging him forward into a lowlit corner. The swordsman raised an eyebrow in silent question, but let himself be turned and pressed against the wall by the cook’s dextrous hands. Pale fingers fisted themselves into the ruffles of his shirt, tugging their faces together in a fierce and burning kiss.

Zoro let one hand rest on a finely tailored hip. The other touched gently at the loose blonde strands behind the cook’s left ear. His mouth filled with the taste of stale and burnt tobacco, finished with a bite of that dry red the dartbrow downed earlier -- a unique kind of bouquet that was all _Sanji_. The way that shitty cook’s tongue moved across his teeth and lips never failed to ignite that urge to fight, that rush of combat that always set his nerves on edge. He could feel the twinge and tingle of excitement on the insides of his elbows; it rolled warm across his chest and settled somewhere in the depths of his gut.

Sanji pulled back before they got too lewd, smirking at the fact that Zoro’s hand had worked its way down to grasp at his right asscheek. He didn’t go far from the kiss, instead nipping lightly at Zoro’s lips.

"Got tired of eye-fucking you from across the room," the blonde breathed into the space between them, speaking against Zoro’s chapped lips. “So I figured we could just get to the real thing instead.”

Sanji locked eyes with the marimo and relished the way his lover’s singular eye darkened, the sharp intake of breath as that chiseled mouth opened slightly, the way it settled into a lethal grin at the prospect of _actual_ fucking.   

Their mouths came together again in lieu of conversation, and Sanji let his hands roam the swordsman’s chest. Thin fingers found the familiar dips and curves of _that_ scar and traced it, feather light touches careful of the raw nerve edges that never healed properly, the bumps of broken skin from shoddy stitches ripping open over and over again.

Zoro’s hand squeezed against his ass, and he lifted that leg to wrap around the swordsman’s middle. He balanced easily on one foot, letting out a sigh between soft smacks of lips, relaxing into the marimo’s muscular heat.

Of course, something so nice would have to be ruined.

"... S-sanji?" A voice broke in, incredulous.

They both froze immediately. Zoro took the initiative to lean back from where he’d been about to give the cook a very nice hickey. Sanji winced, and looked over his shoulder.

_Shit._

"Oh. Hey, Carne," The blonde greeted. He needed a cigarette. Maybe a million cigarettes.

Carne looked extremely confused, and maybe a little scared as he peered at the two of them through his tinted _pince-nez_ , hands full of dirty serving trays. Sanji grimaced. He knew his hair was mussed and one of the marimo's hands was still clenched in it; his lips must have been red and swollen and all too telling. His knee -- locked very suggestively around the moss-head’s hip -- wasn’t really helping, either, and he didn't have to look to know that Zoro was mean-mugging the hell out of the poor guy for interrupting.

In all seriousness, he couldn't give a flying fuck if Carne figured it out, or told everyone, or whatever. He was tired of avoiding it. After all this time, Sanji had come to terms with his consistent attraction to the stupid swordsman, even if he was hesitant about dragging that fact out in the open. If asked, he wouldn’t deny it. He wouldn’t even be able to explain what it was, or even why. It was just… Zoro. The man exuded the kind of shitty attitude that Sanji just couldn’t ignore. And for some unfathomable reason, Zoro stuck around him, too.

He shooed the stuttering sous chef with the one hand that wasn't on the marimo's nice, firm pectoral.

"We're just fighting, it's no big deal,” He snapped, levelling a glare at the guy. “Fuck off already, Jesus."

Carne swallowed, eyes still locked somewhere behind the blonde’s head. He nodded, not even glancing at Sanji, and turned on his toe to waddle back towards the kitchen, not sparing them another glance.

The cook let out a long sigh, turning back to the marimo and resting his forehead on the man’s shoulder.

"...fighting?" Zoro rumbled. Sanji felt the question reverberate through the man’s chest and into his bones.

He picked his head up to meet the swordsman’s eye and shrugged. "Or fucking, whatever. Come on,” He said, grabbing Zoro’s hand from his ass and holding it in his own. “Let's take this upstairs before any more peeping perverts come around."

"...you're one to talk," Zoro muttered, and let himself be dragged up the stairs.

* * *

Sanji found the door to his old room easily, the worn and flaking blue paint the same as he remembered, if not a tad more weathered. He threw open the door without ceremony, strolling into the small cabin. Small was an understatement really, now it was no more than a glorified hall closet, and knowing the old man that’s probably what it was supposed to have been. The room had never seemed so small before the Sunny, though -- when he was younger, he’d never had a problem spending all day in his bed reading cookbooks, or playing with a small train set that was probably still in a box somewhere in the hall closet.

A warm hand on his back broke him from his memories, steering him around and forcing him down to sit on the small twin bed. Sanji’s eyes scanned the room, from the small window to the picture frames coating one of the walls, before settling on Zoro’s hands fumbling with his trouser fastenings. He bit his bottom lip as the swordsman’s skilled hands pulled out his steadily hardening dick, stroking him with a practiced ease. When a hot mouth wrapped around his cock, he gasped, and closed his eyes. The pleasure was intense and blinding. Not for the first time, he thanked whatever gods in existence that Zoro was so fucking good with his tongue. He let his mouth hang open to breathe as the man between his legs settled into a steady rhythm, and Sanji's mind began to wander.  
  
The last time he was in this room was before he'd left of course, many years ago, but not a thing had changed. He knew that shitty old man wouldn’t (or couldn’t) change a damn thing. Sentimental old bastard. He wondered absently what his past self would think if he could see himself now.

He'd still get hot under the collar, even then.  
  
Zoro sucked particularly hard and brought Sanji back to the present with a breathy gasp. The blonde’s half lidded eyes lingered on the patch of green between his legs, and wove his fingers into the coarse moss the other man called hair. He watched it bob up and down, the marimo’s slick lips glistening in the low light of the room. The sensation rolled through his body in waves and he cussed, letting his head fall back against the wood paneled wall, his body going slack.

It all started with a fight, like most things between them.

_His left foot flew out, sending a kick clear across the galley to connect with the algae-brain’s skull. Zoro caught him around the thigh and slammed him against the floor, pressing them together from shoulder to hip._

_“What would you do if I kissed you right now?” The swordsman breathed, almost choking Sanji with his pungent sake breath._

_The cook grit his teeth, ignoring the thrill he felt at the question. “I’d kick you halfway across the grand line, moron,” He snapped, forcing the shithead off him with a powerful wheel kick._

Zoro withdrew his mouth, Sanji’s cock falling from it’s warmth with a _pop_ , loud in the small room. The swordsman slunk onto the bed then, arms on either side of the cook’s hips and almost smacking his collarbone into the blonde’s face.

“What the hell are you doing, shitty marimo?” Sanji growled, pushing back against the marimo’s shoulders as the other man clambered on top of him. He’d rather go back to Zoro’s mouth on his dick.

“Shut up, and back up.” A broad and calloused hand pushed against Sanji’s stomach, forcing the slighter man back about an inch on the bedcovers.

The blonde sneered at him, slapping away the offending hand, but complied with the request. He scooted back the rest of the way himself, back and shoulders now flush against the wall.

“Just relax, shit-cook. Let me take care of it.”  Zoro sneered back. He grabbed Sanji’s cock in one hand, and as he settled over Sanji’s waist, the cook noticed Zoro had lost his pants at some point. He licked his lips as that skilled hand positioned his cock between those powerful legs, and Sanji got the understanding that he’d stretched himself already, too. Sanji let out a long, slow groan as the swordsman pushed himself down. _Fuck_ , that was _hot_.  

“Hah, fuck you, shitty swordsman,” He breathed, adjusting to the heat, to the _pressure_. “I’m perfectly relaxed.”

“Yeah. And you chain smoked two packs worth today for the hell of it,” Zoro grunted, rising up in a slow stroke, before dropping back down with a slick smack of flesh on flesh.

Sanji’s reply was drowned out by his own deep moan. Zoro’s hand came up to cup his cheek as he repeated each motion, resting their foreheads together as they shared breath.

He didn’t know when the tone had changed. When it had shifted to something like this: tender and affectionate. For the longest time they’d just been at each other’s throats, doing anything possible to make the other miserable. They’d almost killed each other thousand times. But then, they’d almost died _for_ each other just as much, and for the rest of their nakama. He just couldn’t believe that somehow, after all that rivalry, after all that anger, that they could find any middle ground at all. Instead of animosity, they forged a bond that Sanji knew he’d never find again in this lifetime.

He let his eyes open to watch Zoro’s face, jaw clenched and brow drawn down in concentration as he fucked himself on Sanji’s cock. Beads of sweat dripped from his temples, beading down to his chin, the bend of his neck. Tanned and scarred pectoral muscles rippled at the strain, one arm stretched taut against the wall to steady his movements. Abs and thighs clenching and unclenching, the mosshead’s member thick and heavy and leaking as it bounced between them.

This man was fucking beautiful, and utterly lethal. Made for murder. Every muscle honed for killing, for _winning_. And here he was, using all his prowess and raw power to fuck Sanji so well that his bones would turn to jelly.

It made the cook want to laugh. And so he did -- the laugh just gathered in his chest and bubbled out, a light chuckle.

Zoro opened his dark eye, small smile in place. “Something funny cook?” He asked, without bite.

“No, no. It’s good,” The cook replied, using a hand to brush his bangs out of his face, closing his eyes. His hands came to rest on the marimo’s hips. “Hah. Really good. Keep going.”

* * *

Later, he stared at the ceiling while the marimo was cleaning himself up in the bathroom, and let his mind wander.

He hadn’t seen the Baratie in years, nonetheless all dressed up. She was an amazing ship even now, and the old man still had a knack for making it the definition of a five star restaurant. The wedding itself had been nice too-- He’d enjoyed helping with the menu, working in a restaurant again. The nostalgia of being in charge of a team, rather than trying to conjure more creative insults for his captain and kicking that rubber boy away from their stores. He wouldn’t give it up for the world of course, but there was something to be said for humble beginnings.

He’d managed to get out of the kitchen just in time to watch the ceremony. It was maybe too traditional for Sanji’s tastes, but he didn’t mind the way the couple’s vows were said with meaning, how you could see the obvious love in their eyes.

For some reason Sanji's brain supplied himself and Zoro in the place of the lovely couple, though.

The absurd thought had wracked itself into his mind earlier in the night. The marimo, in a tuxedo, standing with himself in some kind of farcical wedding. He snorted. Their nakama would all come of course, he could see Usopp and Luffy dressed and standing proudly, Franky actually wearing pants as Chopper cheered from his shoulders. And surely Nami-swan and Robin-chwan would look stunning in their dresses, mourning the loss of such wonderful husband material as Brook supplied the music for their first dance.

 _Pfft._ As if _that_ would ever actually happen. There’s no way Zoro would agree to anything remotely like that. That is, if he even wanted anything at all. So Sanji tried to put it from his mind.

But when the mossbrain returned from the bathroom and threw a damp towel towards his forehead, he still couldn’t get that shitty image out of his head.

"Hey marimo," The cook started, pulling the cloth off of his still-flushed face and wiping down his chest and between his legs before tossing the cloth away into the corner. "Would you ever want something... like earlier?"

The marimo raised an eyebrow and rifled himself under the covers, leaning back with his hands behind his head. He closed his eye, grunting in thought, and Sanji watched as Zoro's brow knit. The cook gave a little smirk as he looked away and fiddled with the end of the bedsheets. He could almost see the gears turning, the smoke emerging from tanned ears.

"Like what," the swordsman said finally. "Like sex?"

Sanji grimaced, and roughly shoved his shoulder.

"No, idiot." He sighed and rolled over to face the wall, away from the marimo. Maybe he was being too sensitive about something that, in all reality, didn’t really matter.

"Like, I dunno, a fucking ceremony or something.” He muttered, finding a particularly interesting splinter to glare at on the wall. “Make it ...official." he finished finally, quietly.

The bed shifted as Zoro sat up behind him, and a thick and scarred arm wrapped around his torso. The hand tugged at his taut stomach, pressing him back into Zoro’s chest in a snug spoon. The swordsman’s breath peppered against his ear, his lips placing light kisses along the shell in the darkness.

"Are we not official?" The marimo rumbled. The cook was surprised, he almost sounded uncertain at that statement. Of course… not ten minutes prior, Sanji himself had not been so certain.

It’s not like they’d _told_ anyone, but there were certain people on the crew that knew about their relationship already.  There were certain people that didn’t know, but he was sure wouldn’t really care... Luffy was pretty carefree anyway. They’d been doing this for years, and to be completely honest, it was one of the most stable things in Sanji’s life. It was nice. It was comfortable.

It was probably about time they had this conversation.

"You know what I mean, moss head. Don't get all offended on me,” He coerced.

The wide hand on Sanji’s chest pressed Sanji onto his back, the dark shadow with wide shoulders loomed over him, singular eye glittering in the moonlight. He watched as Zoro peered at him for a moment, brow furrowed, trying to understand the meaning behind Sanji’s words. As it clicked into place, his eye opened slightly, and his brow raised.

“You want something... to bind us together.” Sanji didn’t blame him for not saying _the word_.

"...yeah." The blonde said, looking away. "I mean, but it's fine if you don't--"  
  
"Stop." Thin lips leaned down to kiss Sanji lightly on the nose, then on the mouth. "I do want something like that," The marimo rumbled, and leaned back.  
  
His eye opened and Sanji was met with a piercing stare. "But only after Mariejois."  
  
A moment passed where Sanji’s brain stuttered to a halt at the fact that the marimo _agreed_ . But then, it caught up with what exactly that walking head of lettuce had _said_.

“ _What?!_ ” He exploded, reeling back and banging his elbow against the wall before punching his lover roughly in the chest. Sanji looked at him like he’d grown another head, because that kind of shit was _insane_.  

"Are you fucking crazy? We're going to our fucking deaths!" He gestured wildly, letting his anger carry him into a fury. He might even be able to get in a good kick to the groin at this angle. But Zoro’s firm grip found his thighs before he could line one up, so instead he cursed the man into the depths of hell.

"So you'll live," the swordsman murmured calmly into pale skin, kissing along Sanji's collarbone, working his way down the cook’s sternum. "And I'll live. And after, Luffy’ll be the Pirate King, and it can be just us."  
  
_What a shitty bastard._ He’d have to achieve his dream, the singular thing he’d trained all his life for. The cook’s eyes shifted over to the white sword leaning in the corner, and all he knew about it, all he knew about _Kuina_ . To make Luffy the Pirate King he’d have to carry the dream of that girl and her sword, he’d have to beat Mihawk into the dust and take his title, death or no death. But Zoro wasn't saying that, and Sanji _hated_ it. Hated the inevitability of all their fates.

Under the swordsman’s sinful ministrations, however -- he was distracted, and caving.

"Okay, okay, fine," Sanji huffed, looking away from him, gesturing with his free hand. "After Mariejois,” He conceded.

He felt more than saw the shitty smirk crawl over the damn swordsman's face. "Knew you'd agree, shit-cook.”

"Fuck you, I'm not agreeing,” He kicked the man in the shin as he settled back onto his side of the bed. “You gave me a fucking ultimatum, which totally isn't fair."

Zoro cocked his eyebrow, listening patiently to the cook’s rant.

"In retaliation, I am going to fuck you so hard on our wedding night that your brain leaks out your ears." Sanji turned to glare at him, poking a finger in his chest. "And you're going to beg for fucking mercy, whether you want to or not."

Zoro ignored the bait and contemplated a moment, thumb and forefinger tapping on his chin.

He turned to the cook with a lethal grin: "So it's a wedding now, huh?"

The blonde’s teeth ground together and his face turned beet red. Limber arms snagged a pillow from behind himself to barrage that shitty plant man within an inch of his life.

"Shut the fuck up, asshole! Shut up!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe a little short? next one will be shorter. we're winding down.
> 
> also.. how to write smut. ugh. might try again on this chap later.


	5. Chapter 5

_Shadows settle on the place that you left_

_Our minds are troubled by the emptiness_

_Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time_

_From the perfect start to the finish line_

Youth, Daughter.

 

* * *

 

Tan, bare feet plodded into the Baratie’s kitchen. The swordsman yawned loudly and scratched at his chest like the large cat he was; the smell of another delicious breakfast of eggs and bacon assaulting his nose. His mouth watered, stomach grumbling  as he ambled towards the lone cook.

"Yeah yeah, it's almost ready, asshole. Go sit down," The cook snapped at him over his shoulder.

Zoro grinned, ignoring the command. Instead he slipped his arms underneath the cook’s, careful not to disrupt their movement. He rested his chin on the blonde's shoulder, squeezing him gently around the middle.

"Mm. Cuddly this morning, are we?" Sanji mumbled, half-smoked cigarette bobbing up and down in his lips.

"Heh. Like you weren't the cuddly one last night, ero-cook." He quipped back, grinning wider at the sudden quirk of the cook’s lips and the way he leaned back into the embrace. Zoro took the opportunity to press his nose into the crook of the cook’s neck, and breathe deeply. The stale scent of tobacco that always clung to the cook’s skin would forever be a comfort.  

"Alright marimo, get off. I've got to plate this shit before it burns."

Zoro complied this time, sliding his arms out just as carefully as he’d placed them and giving the cook’s ear a playful nip before moving away. When he turned towards the doorway, any grin was replaced with a deep frown as he eyed the figure leaning on the jamb. Instead of moving to sit at the island he leaned on the counter to the side of the stove and crossed his arms, preparing for damage control.

That dark eye flicked over to the cook. The blonde chef was humming softly as he placed their simple breakfast on the plates, completely oblivious. He was padding his own ego now, trying to arrange the food in some certain way on the plates, or something else Zoro could care less about. The food would taste amazing regardless, as long as they got through this before it got cold.

When the pan was empty, the shadow in the doorway decided to make his presence known.

"Morning, eggplant," the old man greeted, leaning casually on the jamb.

" _Hngh--_ " The cook bolted upright, entire stance rigid as he struggled not to drop the hot pan, eyes focusing lethally on Zeff’s own.

"How long have you been standing there, shitty old man?" He snapped viciously, knuckles white around the pan’s handle.

"Long enough,” He said, moving into the room, knowing smile creeping upon his face in spite of the cook’s anger. “And quit smoking in my kitchen, you brat."

Sanji’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding into his cigarette.

Zeff pulled out a stool and took a seat at the island, removing his chef’s hat and placing it on the table.

"I would have known anyway. Carne told me about what he saw last night." His gaze flicked to Zoro. "Roronoa, you scared the shit out of him."

The swordsman snorted and grinned, trying to smother it in his own shoulder. The cook’s glare found him and he tried to keep his humor under wraps, but he never failed to get a kick out of scaring people shitless.

The old man seemed to echo Zoro’s humour, mustache twitching in amusement. "And let me just say, even if Carne hadn't said anything, you two aren't exactly subtle," He pointed out, literally, with a finger gesturing between the two of them.

The cook relented then, finally setting the pot down gently on the counter. He touched his temples, and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"So... You don't care?" He asked.

"What if I did?" Zeff raised a thick and grizzled eyebrow at his former protege. For a moment the two cooks glared at each other, Sanji’s stance shifting to defensive. Just seeing that switch put Zoro on edge, and he watched the exchange with guarded interest. After a moment though, the old man just sighed, running a calloused hand over his balding scalp. The swordsman closed his eye, knowing that whatever Zeff said next would be important.

"Brat,” the old man started, “You know as well as I do that you could kick my keister halfway across the grand line. You've spent the last seven years making waves with your crazy friends. Searching for your crazy goddamn dreams." He waved an arm towards the window.

Zoro opened his eye again, watching Sanji's face carefully. That shitty cook was biting the inside of his lip, eyes cast down to stare at the empty pan, restraining himself from lashing out until the old man was finished.

"All I care about is that you're happy. If this creepy bastard is what makes you happy, then good on ya, kid."

A beat passed, and Sanji blinked. The words hung in the air, and slowly, the tension ebbed from the cook’s posture. He lifted his eyes to glare at his old man and scoffed, like he’d not been ready to throw himself into the sea if Zeff thought any different.

“Like I would give a shit what _you_ think, you old geezer.” He asserted, trying and failing to keep the infectious grin from his lips. The blonde chef took his own plate and sat down at the island, adjacent to Zeff. The old man just rolled his eyes at the younger man, and leaned his chin on his hand.

“Hey marimo, you growing roots over there?” Sanji barked at him around a mouthful of food. “If that plate gets cold I’m shoving my foot so far down your throat you’ll shit leather.”

“I’d like to see you try, shitty cook,” He sneered, snatching his plate up and moving to sit next to the blonde.

“ _Hah_? I didn’t know plants could talk,” That shitty cook said, kicking his knee as he sat down.

Zoro just smiled.  And all throughout breakfast, Sanji couldn't get the stupid grin off of his face.

* * *

Zeff stood on the Baratie’s deck in the late morning sunshine. Another beautiful day, though today there were a few clouds spotting to the west. They’d have a storm tomorrow, and if the light breeze and slight chop to the waves were any indication, it would be a bad one. But today… today would be perfect.

He only wished that he didn’t have to say goodbye.

The eggplant stretched his quads, and then his hamstrings on the deck next to him. Roronoa leaned on the railing and watched the sea, draining the restaurant’s last bottle of sake. _Ah well_ , Zeff thought, unable to bring himself to any level of anger right now. It wasn’t the end of the world. He made a mental note to wire Thomas; maybe they could get another shipment early next week.

Old eyes peered out over the water.  "So really, where's your boat eggplant? Is it one of those submersibles?" He asked, waving his hand around, not entirely sure he got the right term for the damn things.

"Look, shitty old man,” The eggplant griped behind him, “I told you. We walked."

Zeff turned around to raise an eyebrow at the eggplant, false leg thunking heavily on the deck. He couldn’t possibly mean walking across the _water_. Even through all the time Zeff himself spent in the grand line, he’d never heard of anyone who could do that.

He voiced his disbelief. "Sanji. There's no way you can just _walk_ across the water."

"Watch me," The eggplant retorted shortly, biting down on the end of his cigarette. It was his second of the morning.

The blonde rose from his stretches, strode over to the Baratie’s railing, and tilted his head towards his companion. "Marimo, lets go. Hop on."

Roronoa grunted in reply. The moss headed swordsman placed his hands on the eggplant’s shoulders, vaulting himself into a sitting position around the eggplant’s neck. His feet tucked neatly into the gaps between the eggplant’s elbows and his ribs. The Straw Hat swordsman just glared with his usual sour expression, arms crossed.

Zeff thought they looked absolutely ridiculous. There’s no way they were going to do what he thought they were about to do.  

"Old man," Sanji said, grabbing his attention. The eggplant fixed him with a level glare, hands in his pockets like one of the strongest men in the world wasn’t sitting squarely on his shoulders.

"I'll see you again sometime," He said, visible blue eye boring into Zeff’s own. He saw the resolve then, the conviction in the set of the eggplant’s jaw; every part of him ready to face the upcoming fight head on.

The old man nodded back, folding his arms. He would allow himself to hope, just this once. And maybe he’d keep a closer eye on the papers in the coming weeks.  

"Sure thing, eggplant,” He assured the boy. “I’ll be here."

And when the pair took off, Sanji's nimble feet running on the air just above the water's surface, Zeff found himself pleasantly surprised.


End file.
